


Tell Me How Not to Care or Teach Me to Lie

by Miri1984



Series: This Ship Is Cursed [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Enemies to Something, M/M, i'm sorry this was meant to be a character study and then it got away from me, we know wilde disappears, where does he go, wilde shows some skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-13 05:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: Please note the change in rating and the new relationship tag. Um. Blame @butnotdrowing? And sorry if you started this fic under false pretenses. If it's any consolation it'll be a loooong sloooow burn.





	1. Didn't Ask

He’s not the captain. That wouldn’t be right. He’s proved that he’s not fit to lead. The feel of the deck under his feet, though, the gentle rock of the waves, those are things he can lean into. With better balance, too thanks to the damned feet.

He gets odd looks from passengers but the rest of the crew are used to it by now. The others whisper to the passengers to leave him alone, he’s marked by Poseidon (ha, Zolf thinks, HA) he’s a lucky charm or a curse but the seas don’t react to him any differently than they do to anyone else and he doesn’t dream of a giant faceless god and he doesn’t send letters and he doesn’t think.

Thinking is what got him here. Thinking is what broke the only bonds he had left to care about. Thinking and talking and trying to do a job he was never suited for.

He’s a sailor now, and that’s all there is.

 

#

 

Things are getting worse. They get bits and pieces of news from London, from Paris, from Prague (he turns and leaves the deck when the name of the city is mentioned, he won’t hear it, won’t allow himself to know what has happened, he doesn’t have the right to care about them any more) from Cairo and Damascus. The sea doesn’t change and the sea doesn’t ask him to care _so why can’t he stop._

 

#

 

They make port in Alexandria and take on passengers. Zolf is in the rigging when he sees him and can’t help sucking in a shocked breath at the sight of the man. His head is shaved. He’s ushering in a piece of cargo, a large crate that almost looks like a coffin. Zolf blinks, unable to reconcile the image of the person below him with the one he has in his head.

He must be mistaken. Wilde probably has relatives. Probably some of them aren’t as insufferable as he is. But he spent too long staring at that face in frustration and anger not to know every curve, even if the cheeks are now gaunt and the eyes have shadows under them.

He grips the rope so tight his fingers are marked with its pattern for an hour after the man disappears into his cabin and Zolf considers jumping ship, just leaving, running away again like he did before because if Wilde looks like _that_ then…

 

#

 

He manages to avoid him until they’re on the open ocean. Or at least he thinks he’s avoiding him. It’s third watch and Zolf is in the stern on lookout when he hears a gentle cough behind him.

“Much easier to drown you here than on land,” Zolf says, without looking around.

A small whuff of a chuckle, in a voice so familiar the last vestiges of doubt are blown away on the sea air. “Oh, I’ve been learning how to swim,” Wilde says. “Metaphorically, in any case.”

Zolf feels a twinge of curiosity but he pushes it down, smothers it, drowns it in his chest. _You don’t have a right to ask._

“They’re in Rome,” Wilde says. “In case you were wondering.”

_Poseidon, no._

“Didn’t ask,” Zolf says.

“Didn’t need to,” Wilde says, and comes up to stand next to him. He’s too close. Far too close and stupid to risk it.

“Did you know I’d be on this ship when you booked passage?” Zolf says finally, sighing.

“I had my suspicions,” Wilde says. “Difficult to keep a low profile with those.” He indicates the legs. Then smirks. “Metaphorically, in any case.”

“So.” Zolf says, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket to stop himself from strangling Wilde where he stands. “Where're you going then? Going to follow them? Keep them safe? Or are you running same as me?”

“Are you really running, Mr Smith?” Wilde arches an eyebrow.

He turns then, finally. Gives Wilde his best glare. “What d’you want?” he asks then.

Wilde waves a hand, and even with the shaved head and the obvious lack of prestidigation and the shadows under his eyes and the slightly off centre tie Zolf can see the facade trying to come back. He growls under his breath and Wilde… hesitates. Drops his hand. Sucks in a deep breath through his nose.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you Mr Smith,” he says, and Zolf snorts. “Believe me I am as surprised as you are.”

“Doubt it.”

“Well. Yes. You would.” He takes another deep breath. “I’m somewhat… incapacitated at the moment. And I have need of help. Clerical help, to be exact.”

“Incapacitated? You still got all your limbs, from what I can see. Or is it just emotional baggage from not lookin’ picture perfect?”

A slight smile there. Bastard.

“I’m currently unable to use magic at all,” Wilde says. “An inconvenience that I’m hoping will be temporary.”

“Why are you asking _me?”_ Zolf says. “I hate you.”

“And terrible as your personal taste is I’m afraid I have no one left to which I can turn,” he says, flatly.

Zolf blinks. “You what?”

Wilde adjusts frayed cuffs and sighs again. “The world is in danger and your erstwhile companions are… “

“Don’t,” Zolf hisses. “Don’t talk about them. I don’t want to hear it.”

Wilde’s nostrils flare and he looks at Zolf for a long moment. There is a slight twitch in the corner of his eye and he chews at his cheek. “The world is in danger and I have a task to complete,” he says, finally. “Those to whom I would normally turn for help are unavailable. Those to whom I would be directed to for help by normal channels are compromised. Which leaves me with exactly one person I know whom I can trust.”

“Me?” Zolf cannot suppress the incredulity. “You think you can trust me?”

“To act in a manner that will not compromise the safety of every sentient being on this earth? Yes. I do believe I can trust you on that, Mr Smith.”

Zolf rubs his eyes with the heals of his hands. “No,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I said no. Find someone else to save the world. I’m bad at it.”

He pushes past Wilde, who steps smoothly out of his way.

“Hamid still writes to you, you know,” Wilde says. “I’m guessing you don’t bother to collect the letters.”

“Fuck you, Wilde,” Zolf says, and does not stop walking.


	2. Jerky

The thing is, it’s hard to avoid someone when you’re on a ship unless you’re a passenger and don’t have work to do, and Wilde isn’t avoiding  _ him. _ Zolf isn’t sure if he’s actively seeking him out either, he just… sees the man. Far too often.

He won’t ask about the hair, or the lack of magic, or the box. He won’t ask about why they went to Rome, won’t ask about the letters. He grits his teeth when he’s forced to push past Wilde on deck or in the mess. He doesn’t ask, he  _ won’t _ ask he won’t, he won’t he…

“You  _ can _ just ask,” Wilde says, finally, on their third day out skirting the coast of Egypt in preparation for going through the canal. Wilde has caught him in the mess, trying to grab some breakfast before the rest of the crew and passengers are awake. Of course the man is up early. It’s not as though he has anything other to do than sleep on this trip.

Zolf tears off a bit of jerky in his teeth and stares up at Wilde, chewing with his mouth open. 

He feels a surge of satisfaction when Wilde delicately averts his eyes. 

He doesn’t move out of the way though.

“Do you mind?” Zolf says, still with his mouth half full. “I have work to do.”

“You know that Sir Bertrand died, I presume?” Wilde says then and Zolf stops. Swallows. 

He didn’t know.

“Finally suffocated on his own arrogance, did he?” he says.

“Surprising you should say that, actually…” Wilde starts, but Zolf throws up a hand.

“I don’t  _ care, _ ” Zolf says.

“Really?”

Zolf can remember the last time he saw Bertie, on the airship. Can remember the rage in his heart. Can remember the desire to kill. He can remember the look on Sasha’s face. The look on Hamid’s when he tried gently to explain.

He can’t forget that it was Bertie who made it clear to him how much Zolf had failed. And he shouldn’t feel happy about someone dying. He  _ shouldn’t. _ “However it happened he got what he deserved,” he says, and almost believes it. He steps forward, right up into Wilde’s space, but Wilde doesn’t move. “Get out of my way.”

“You haven’t finished eating yet, Mr Smith,” Wilde points at the half eaten piece of jerky in his hand, the mug of water. Zolf isn’t listening. He  _ won’t  _ find it in himself to feel sorry for Bertie, that would be ridiculous, but Hamid and Sasha are coiling in his gut like worms, tugging at his heart, twisting the guilt into a solid knot that makes the jerky he as swallowed want to force its way back out. Too much change, heaped on them too close together.

_ His fault. _

Wilde isn’t moving and Zolf is too paralysed with guilt to bother any more. The man isn’t going to stop, isn’t capable. So he sighs and plants himself on the nearest stool, waving a hand at Wilde to do whatever he wants.

Wilde fetches himself bread and ale and some jerky of his own and sits opposite Zolf, takes a bite and chews. And waits.

“You were ready enough to throw information at me before,” Zolf says finally.

“I prefer a receptive audience,” Wilde says. “Usually.” 

“Finding it a bit more difficult to get one of those recently, are we?”

Wilde rubs a hand over the regrowth on his head, then shrugs. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Mr Smith,” he says. 

“Not if you want to do it efficiently,” Zolf snaps back.

They look at each other. It’s always a waiting game, with Wilde, even though Zolf can be happy that the waiting this time isn’t full of stupid  _ patter.  _

“I… respect your decision to leave the group,” Wilde says, finally, and Zolf’s eyebrows actively try to climb off his face. “Although you probably should have anticipated that you and Sir Bertrand would clash.”

“I knew we’d clash,” Zolf snaps.  _ I didn’t know it would hurt people to drown him.  _ He’d thought he’d stopped caring about people enough not to worry. Bertie was useful, but objectively terrible. 

Hamid wasn’t. Sasha wasn’t.

Decisions have ramifications and when you have friends you have to think about their feelings and when your friends have feelings  _ you have to have them too. _

Wilde is just looking at him.

“You used to talk more,” Zolf says. Wilde chuckles.

“I’m beginning to see the benefits of listening,” he says.

“I’m not the one who has news to tell.”

“Do you want to know what I have to say?”

Zolf sucks in a breath. Looks away. Closes his eyes.  _ Does he? _

When he looks back at Wilde, he thinks for a second he sees pity in his eyes. It’s almost enough to make Zolf stand and walk away. But he remembers small arms, trying desperately to give him comfort. He remembers a stab of hurt, hurt that he had caused, in eyes that had seen too much hurt in her short life. He remembers caring.

He sniffs. Realises his cheeks are wet with tears. Feels the touch of his god in that damp, salty warmth for the first time in months.

_ I came back to the sea, but this was what you wanted, wasn’t it?  _

He takes a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

 


	3. Bath Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating and the new relationship tag. Um. Blame @butnotdrowing? And sorry if you started this fic under false pretenses. If it's any consolation it'll be a loooong sloooow burn.

_Hamid’s sister died. At the same time as Bertie._

 

Zolf knows Hamid is close to his family and his heart aches. More grief, more separation. But Zolf knows Hamid is strong enough to cope, and the way Wilde talks about him has Zolf nodding along. He does pull up short when he finds out about Apophis though. Who knew the meritocrats had a thing for halflings?

 

_Sasha was undead for a while. I think you’d be proud of how she handled it._

 

Zolf remembers the feel of her cold skin under his hands on the airship, and tries not to feel resentment at Poseidon for not even deigning to tell him that his friend was so close to… no, so _deep in_ the embrace of death.

 

_They found friends. A goblin and an orc, both paladins. You would like Grizzop I think. Azu… well. You’d like her too. She wouldn’t let you not._

 

He doesn’t feel resentful of them. He’s grateful. He’s happy Hamid stood up so proud and firm and found what they needed to continue the job he’d abandoned.

It doesn’t hurt that they didn’t try to look for him.

They respected his wishes.

They did what he asked.

And now he has to do what is needed.

 

#

 

Wilde stands as Zolf does.

“Where are you going?”

“Where do you think? Rome. They need help. We need to go and help them.”

Wilde lets his head drop back in exasperation. “I _told_ you, I need you to help _me_.”

“You came in here determined to tell me exactly how much danger people I care about are in and you didn’t expect me to go and…”

“No! I didn’t expect you to run off after them! They have…” Wilde makes a face. “They have a highly skilled teleporter with them. Two of them, actually, now, not to mention two paladins who don’t, unlike some _clerics_ I know, spend ninety percent of their time sulking about what their god wants them to do. Competent paladins. One of them very large.”

“Large,” Zolf says, flatly. _More competent than me. More reliable._

“Larger than you and me put together, Mr Smith.”

Wilde has reached out a hand and is grasping Zolf’s sleeve. He angrily shakes it off. “I need to go and help them,” he grits out.

“You. Can’t.” Wilde says. “And you know it. This… what I’m doing is more important.”

“Well what _are_ you doing then?” Zolf shouts and Wilde opens his mouth to answer, but the first mate chooses that moment to walk in and a few steps behind come three other passengers. Wilde closes his mouth and takes a long breath in through his nose. When he speaks again it’s in a low murmur.

“I need to get to Japan.”

“Well _obviously_ otherwise you wouldn’t be on the ship.”

Wilde pinches his nose. “I can explain everything when we have more privacy. Just. Don’t jump ship and run to Rome. You’ll only die and you’re useless to me dead.”

“Better to be useless to you than useless to _them.”_

Wilde’s expression is pained. “Really?”

Zolf shifts from foot to foot, disgruntled. “Probably. Didn’t. Think that one through.”

“Mmm hmmm,” Wilde says. “We’ll have time to talk. It’s more than a month to Japan, after all.”

Zolf grits his teeth. Stares at him. Wilde stares right back. He is severely tempted to create water in his smug face but the first mate is watching them curiously out of the corner of one eye and the cabin boy is openly gaping. “Sure,” he says. Eventually. “Fine.”

 

#

 

Zolf works. In the lead up to the canal there isn’t anything urgent to do, really. They’re only on open water because the winds are better, and Zolf can’t find it in himself to be frightened of gigantic metal monsters creeping beneath the waves when he can see land.

It’s midnight, and Zolf has finished his watch, and he’s making his way back to his cabin when he spots movement near the railing on the port side. He has dark vision, he can see perfectly well, Wilde, sitting on a stool with a bucket and a scoop. Naked.

Well mostly. Chest and legs are bare. Even Wilde, it seems, isn’t willing to air _all_ his business on deck, even if it is midnight.

It’s how they wash, onship. Even passengers, if they need it, will sit up on deck and wash themselves down. If you’re less than happy about your assets being displayed for the crew there is a privacy screen you can set up, between the cabins. Wilde hasn’t bothered though, and while Zolf can believe that it’s because he’s vain enough to think he’s doing whoever happens upon him a favour, he also has gotten the distinct impression that Wilde doesn’t actually care. Something has changed in him, something fundamental. The world falling apart around your ears will do that to you, Zolf supposes.

He’s pale, of course. You don’t get the chance to take in a whole lot of sun wearing the kinds of suits Wilde wears, and he’s slender. He doesn’t have to rough it like the rest of them, doesn’t have the broad shoulders from carrying the weight of armor, or the lean muscle of long distances traveled on foot, but it’s obvious that he takes care of himself. For all that though, he’s soft and pampered and, Zolf has to remind himself, without his magic, utterly useless.

“I did think I might get a little privacy at this time of the night,” he hears Wilde’s mild voice and looks up into dark eyes that are crinkled at the edges in mischief.

Zolf swallows with a mouth suddenly far too dry.

“What’s that?” he says, voice a touch rougher than it should be, flinging a hand at the glint around Wilde’s (well turned) ankle.

Wilde glances down and Zolf sees a faint look of distaste cross his features. “Ah. The curse of my current condition.” He lifts the offending leg gracefully so that Zolf can see more clearly the cuffs of anti-magic shackles.

“Can’t you just take them off? I’ve got an axe you could use.”

“Oh, I have the key,” Wilde says. “I’m wearing these for my protection, not because they’ve been imposed.”

“Protection?”

Wilde sighs. “Yes," he waves a hand as though it's not imporant. "Long story short, someone was casting spells at me, gave me terrible nightmares to the point where I went nearly three weeks without sleep, the only way to stop them was to…” he reaches down and pats the cuffs, the moonlight glinting off the water still dripping down his bare shoulders. “All sorted now. Thanks to Grizzop and the Artemis folk.”

Grizzop the Goblin Paladin. Zolf still has trouble getting his head around that one. But the fact that he'd managed such a simple solution to a complex magical problem spoke to his competence, and some of the crushing worry surrounding Zolf's heart eases.

As for Wilde, he can well imagine him having enough enemies to want to render him mad from exhaustion even without his current projects. “Are they still doing it?” Zolf asks, curious despite himself.

“I check every few nights,” Wilde says. “Haven’t done on ship though.” He smiles, thin lipped, and Zolf can see the wariness in his eyes. “The other passengers might not appreciate being woken up by my screaming.”

Zolf raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

The skin around Wilde’s eyes tightens. “You have no idea.”

Zolf dreams sometimes, of crushing earth and darkness, of tentacles, of falling into depths sure of his own failure, of a kind, faceless voice that will not understand.

He doesn’t scream. But he never did then, either.

“That’s why you can’t use magic.”

Wilde nods, shrugs, then indicates the bucket. “Hence I am reduced to aping the unwashed masses in order to not become one with them.” He scoops more water and pours it over his head, using his other hand to smooth it over his chest. Zolf clenches his jaw and looks away. He’s seen Wilde wet before, but _then_ he’d felt the satisfaction of knowing that it was on Zolf’s terms and Wilde definitely wasn’t enjoying it. This… there is something obscene about this. Zolf is sweating even in the cool night air and by contrast he can feel Wilde’s eyes on him like pinpricks of ice.

“Right then,” Zolf coughs out, trying, and mostly succeeding, to sound businesslike. “We’ll be in the queue for the canal by morning. I’ll leave you to it.”

The smile Wilde gives him is lazy and calculating. “You wanted to talk,” Wilde says, and indicates the significant lack of others nearby. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

“No it isn’t!” Zolf says.

“Why ever not?” Wilde says, dipping the scoop again and Zolf resists the urge to shut his eyes against water that cascades over too much skin.

“I’m not discussing this with you like _that,_ ” Zolf says, embarrassed to hear a hint of a squeak in his voice.

“Like what?”

Zolf doesn’t shout. He _doesn’t shout._ “Naked and dripping,” he snaps instead. “Put some fucking clothes on and meet me in my cabin, if you’re so determined.”

Wilde grins. “You’re much more fun than you used to be, you know,” he says, voice almost a purr.

Zolf casts create water over Wilde’s head and storms off to the sound of Wilde laughing. “Much, much more,” he hears faintly as he slams the door of his cabin shut and leans against it, eyes closed and breathing hard.

 _Fuck Wilde,_ he thinks, then groans.

_Fuck._


	4. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .... I think I broke the streak on the second chapter but who wants me to try to end every chapter with some variant of "Fuck Wilde?" (yes possibly even like that).

He has a few minutes, at least, so he drinks from a flask he’s had with him for months, one that he has barely touched (good brandy, from Hamid’s flat in London, tucked against his chest like a holy symbol or a reminder of what he has lost) and smooths a hand over his hair. He has his own cabin, rare for crew, but he proved himself competent enough over the months he’s been on board and the other crew don’t really want to share with someone whose legs are literally water (there is that slight smell, sometimes, of brine and the sea and something musty and other worldly - Zolf tells himself he is getting used to it - he isn’t) so he has one that is tucked away in the bow of the ship, where the smell of the bilge seeps up when there is no wind.

The knock at the door is a sharp, rat-a-tat, confident and normal and Zolf takes one more deep breath before opening it.

The cabin’s roof is too low for Wilde, who stoops as he enters. Fully dressed again, in clothes a lot less shabby than the ones he wore when he first came on board, Wilde sits on Zolf’s only stool and stretches out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles where Zolf can still see the glint of the shackles.

Zolf faces him, leaning against his simple water basin, and crosses his arms.

“So,” he says. “Start talking.”

“Just talking?” Wilde says, and Zolf lifts his hands warningly. Wilde tosses his head and grins. “Fine.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sheaf of papers, handing them to Zolf. “Remember that key you found, the one that was for a meritocratic vault?”

Zolf nods absently flipping through the pages. They mean absolutely nothing to him. Diagrams and cyphered words twisting meaninglessly under his gaze. “That’s a killswitch. For the simulacrum. Grizzop managed to get the cult of Hephaestus to build it. Or at least, most of it.”

“That’s what’s in the hold?” Zolf says, handing the papers back. Wilde nods.

“I can’t very well leave it in a vault somewhere so it has to stay with me. Until I can find literally anyone else trustworthy.”

“Low on friends now, aren’t we.”

Wilde smirks and indicates Zolf with one hand. “Obviously.”

“Why are we taking it to Japan then?”

“Grizzop destroyed a factory that was making simulacrum chassis, thousands of them. A lot of them were being shipped to Japan. Supply has been cut off but there have already been a lot of shipments. We need to get to where ever they’re storing those chassis, and do the same thing to them that Grizzop did to the ones in Damascus.”

“So it’s just a simple sabotage job? Go in, blow the place up, leave? I’m not exactly the most qualified.”

“Nor am I at present,” Wilde sounds a little forlorn at that, and Zolf sees him glance down at his ankle. “We could definitely use Hamid or Sasha.”

Zolf looks at him, eyes narrowing. “You said they would meet you there,” he said. “In Japan.”

Wild smooths a hand over what is left of his hair. “We can’t rely on them making it out of Rome,” he says, finally. “They went in underprepared and there are very good reasons it’s not a tourist attraction, as you well know.”

Zolf clenches his jaw. “You _said_ we couldn’t help them,” he says.

“We can’t,” Wilde says. “I am an illusionist, Mr Smith, one that at present cannot do any magic at all. And even if I could, do you know what happens to magic in Rome?” he pauses, looks down at Zolf’s feet, then up again. “Do you know what happens to _divine_ magic?”

“Why would I? It’s not exactly on the regular shipping routes.”

Wilde sighs. “The Cults really aren’t big on giving their people basic historical context, are they.”

“I worship a god, I don’t write academic papers for the fucking university.”

“The gods are cut off from Rome,” Wilde says, patiently. “Any… godly powers, or favours that you would normally count on for things such as… oh, I don’t know _walking,_ wouldn’t work.”

Zolf stares at him for a long moment. “So you’re sayin’ if I go to Rome my legs’ll drop off.”

Wilde nods precisely. “Yes. Or more likely react with the latent magical fallout and explode, killing you and everything within a hundred feet of you.”

“Ah.”

There is a long pause, in which Wilde looks at him with one eyebrow slightly raised. Zolf has seen him look more smug, but not often. Finally, Wilde spreads his hands.

“Mr Smith,” he says. “You. Can’t. Go. To. Rome.”

“You know you could have led with that,” Zolf says after an awkward pause. “The thing about the legs.”

Wilde shuts his eyes and shakes his head a little. “Evidently I should have.”

Zolf smacks his palms together. “Right then. We’re going to Japan to blow up a factory. Fine. Anything else I need to know?”

“Nothing urgent,” Wilde says.

“Fantastic. Get out.” Wilde cocks his head and Zolf holds up a finger. “No. Don’t speak. Just go.”

Wilde shrugs and unfolds himself from the stool, managing grace even as he hunches over.

“We should discuss plans for what to do when…”

“Got another month before we get there,” Zolf says. “And I’m done sharing oxygen with you tonight. Get out before I give you another bath.”

Wilde chuckles, but thankfully does as he asks.

 

The Suez is a pain in the arse and a boring one at that. For someone who grew up dreaming of the sea and open spaces and waves, sailing down the Suez is like playing ship wars in a bathtub. Even when the winds are good they can’t go too fast, since the canal is clogged with traffic and there is pretty much nothing to see except swathes of baked desert on either side.

It’s not as crowded as it has been. Trade has been breaking down a little between Europe and Asia, what with riots in London and the destruction of Mr Ceiling in Paris, but it’s still a slow, ten hour slog through nothing interesting at all. The wind dies at one point and Zolf does a stint at the oars with the rest of the crew, stripping to his waist and enjoying the stretch in his muscles as he lets physical exertion strip away too many crowding thoughts. They’ve been at it for about an hour when the first mate comes down, talks in a hushed whisper to the third mate who’s been calling the stroke. She calls for a stop and Zolf figures the wind must have picked up again. The others seem to think the same and start milling about, securing their oars and chattering, but something about the First Mate’s expression has him worried, and he leaves his oar mate to go up on deck and see what’s going on.

He finds Captain Ladipo standing portside, Wilde standing next to her, looking out to the west bank of the canal.

“What’s going on, Captain?” Zolf asks, ignoring the look Wilde gives him. He hadn’t stopped to put on his shirt.

The Captain points out at what looks like gathering mist on the bank. It’s obviously unnatural, roiling and expanding in a manner that screams magic. “Illusion?” Zolf asks. The Captain has no magical talent of her own, and Wilde is effectively muzzled, but they’re not entirely without spellcasters on board.

“Jenkins says yes,” she says, meaning the Boatswain. “We just need to see if…”

The cloud starts rapidly moving towards them and Zolf doesn’t need the Captain to turn to him. He rushes to the bell and sounds the call to arms.

“Get inside!” he shouts to Wilde, who is already retreating to his cabin. The rest of the crew are rushing about the deck, arming themselves, readying flasks and ranged weapons to stop boarders crawling up the sides of the ship.

Without magic, it would be a stupid place to ambush a ship. The canal is too well travelled, too well patrolled, too many people depend on the trade line not breaking down.

It’s not unheard of for the desperate to try, though, and the crew are prepared. “What are they after?” the Captain mutters, as Zolf returns to deck, wearing chain now, and carrying a mace and his shield.

He hadn’t replaced his trident. It didn’t seem right, somehow.

Zolf also thinks he knows what they’re after and wonders if Wilde considered the fact that he was putting everyone on the ship in danger bringing the fucking thing on board. Or maybe they just want Wilde himself, sick of him being immune to their nightmare spells. Zolf briefly entertains a fantasy of pitching both Wilde and his box over the side of the ship, but it’s a fantasy he doesn’t feel any real urge to enact. That’s probably growth, or something, he thinks, even as the fog engulfs them and eerie silence descends.

His visibility is reduced to a couple of feet. The crew are lined up along the railings, both sides, absolutely silently. Zolf strains to hear sounds of movement, the tell tale slosh of a body or a boat moving through water, the chunk of a grappling hook, the stomp of a boot on the wood of the hull.

He isn’t listening for the tread of high quality shoes, or expecting the scent of expensive cologne. His head whips around to see Wilde, far too close for anyone’s comfort, lightly holding a crossbow.

Any noise Zolf could make will interfere with the rest of the crew’s ability to hear approaching enemies, but he hopes the ferocity of his glare is enough to let Wilde know _exactly_ what he thinks of this idea.

Wilde’s mouth twists in a small smile and he lifts one shoulder and drops it, before taking position at the railing. At least he holds the crossbow like someone who actually knows how to use it.

He _is_ still going to get himself killed.

There is a shout from starboard, and then Zolf starts to hear the noise of movement from below them. He takes a step back, ready to finish any enemies who manage to get on deck, just as there is the twang of at least six different bowstrings. A few soft grunts, a splash, let him know that at least some of those arrows have made their mark and he nods, satisfied.

He hears a scream from near where Wilde is standing and sees the third mate go overboard. A black clothed figure climbs over the railing and Wilde neatly steps backwards, raising his crossbow and shooting the figure through the head. They fall silently, but another follows, and soon Zolf can hear the sounds of close quarters fighting all around them.

He lunges forward and pulls Wilde away from the railing, positioning himself with his back to the man and muttering under his breath. While he still has contact with Wilde’s wrist he tries to cast a shield on the man, coming smack up against the anti magic shackles. “Fuck,” he swears.

“Problem, Mr Smith?”

“You’ve got no fucking armour you prat,” Zolf says. “Why are you even _up_ here?” A black figure lunges out of the fog towards them and Zolf swings with his mace, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone on impact. He kicks the man backwards but doesn’t move away from Wilde, who has fired again and is reloading.

“I’m not entirely useless,” Wilde says as he loads and fires again. This time the woman screams as she goes down and Zolf can hear the hiss of some kind of poison that Wilde has used to coat his bolts. Another black clad figure comes out of the fog and barrels into Zolf, pushing him off balance and Wilde stumbles as he is attempting to reload, dropping the crossbow on the deck.

“Damn,” he hears Wilde say.

“Get below decks you idiot,” Zolf says as he pushes the figure back with his shield. He mutters under his breath, letting off a scorching ray that hits him in the chest, and he goes down, screaming. Wilde isn’t listening, though, and is trying to pick up his crossbow, which has fallen close to the woman with the poisoned arrow in her chest.

Zolf doesn’t have time to see what happens as two more figures jump him and he spends the next few seconds furiously swinging his mace and shield. There are fewer screams and grunts around them, and Zolf is pretty sure the tide of the battle is going their way, until he hears the unmistakable sound of a crossbow bolt thudding into an unarmoured torso.

He spins around to see the woman Wilde had shot, holding his crossbow and pointing it upwards, and Wilde looking down at her, standing far too still.

Zolf gives a shout and runs to the woman, finishing her off with a mace to the face, just as Wilde drops to one knee. Zolf goes to throw an arm across him to support him, prevent him from pitching forwards onto his face, but stops when he sees the bolt sticking out of his shoulder.

“Well, that’s not ideal,” Wilde slurs, before pitching forward onto the deck.

 _Fuck Wilde!_ Zolf thinks.


	5. Sweat it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon for Wilde: Since Damascus he's been uncharacteristically single for obvious reasons, but Wilde is one of those people who craves touch. Also content warning for... coercion? IDK nothing about this relationship is healthy really. (BUT WOULD IT HELP IF I TOLD YOU THAT THE POISON DID 1D2 WISDOM DAMAGE TO WILDE? HE ROLLED A 2 ON IT AS WELL).

“What’s your deal with him, any way?” Jenkins says as he helps Zolf lug Wilde’s unconscious form to his cabin.

“Worked together,” Zolf grunts. “In Paris.” He doesn’t know what the poison on the bolt is and he doesn’t want the other crew hearing or seeing anything about whatever treatment he’ll need. They’ve lost two, over the side at the start of the battle, and there are four more with mundane injuries that can be dealt with by the ship’s medic. By far the worst hurt is Wilde, so Zolf is stuck with him.

Jenkins lies him out on the floor, because you can’t treat someone in a hammock.

“Bit of a looker, yeah?” he says and Zolf snarls at him to get out, because Wilde does look peaceful and pretty laid out like this, long eyelashes resting on his cheekbones, full lips slightly open and Zolf _refuses_ to acknowledge that he agrees with the man.

When Jenkins (reluctantly) leaves Zolf slaps Wilde across the face.

Hard.

“Uhfn,” Wilde’s eyes open. “Seriously?” he murmurs.

“You’ve been poisoned,” Zolf says. “I need the key to your bracers and the name of the poison. If you want to stay alive.”

“Left hip pocket,” Wilde slurs, then mumbles the name of a poison. It’s not one Zolf knows.

“What’s it meant to do?” he says.

“Nausea. Paralysis. Not usually fatal.”

“Not _usually.”_

Zolf’s hands don’t shake as he finds the key, there are more important things to worry about as he pulls up Wilde’s trouser leg and unlocks the magic shackles. Wilde gives a whole body shudder when they fall away.

“You’d best be fast,” he says.

“Fast might mean you die,” Zolf says, resting a hand on the shoulder where the bolt is buried.

Wilde mutters something that Zolf can’t catch and Zolf braces himself as he prepares a spell to cast as soon as the bolt is pulled free.

Wilde screams when he pulls it out. The sound isn’t as satisfying as Zolf would have thought, neither are the deep, rasping gasps as Zolf puts his hand over the wound, murmuring to Poseidon who answers his call with more force and ease than Zolf can remember since before he arrived in London.

The flesh knits under his hand even as Wilde’s grasps at Zolf’s forearm, eyes wild and desperate.

“Hurts…” Wilde says.

“Yeah. Tends to do that when you’re an idiot,” Zolf says, keeping his hand steady as blue light washes over the ragged edges of Wilde’s flesh.

“Shackles,” Wilde says.

“No,” Zolf says. “You put those on again, you die. You’re poisoned. You need them off for at least an hour or you don’t…”

Wilde clutches at his arm. “Shackles,” he says.

“I can’t heal you if you have them on,” Zolf snaps. “So they stay off.”

“Stop me from dying. Then put them on.”

Zolf finishes closing the wound as much as he can and pushes Wilde back on the floor, wincing when the back of his head hits the wooden boards. Wilde’s hand comes up and covers Zolfs, clutching at it the way a child would clutch at their mother.

“I can’t neutralise the poison,” Zolf says. “I don’t have an antidote. Leave it and it might paralyse you, or suffocate you. We have to let it go its course. And I’m sorry if you don’t want to deal with nightmares right now but it’s nightmares or death, all right?”

Wilde grimaces, then arches his back in pain. “Then go,” he says.

Zolf snorts. “You really don’t get how healing works, do you,” he says, and wipes sweat from Wilde’s brow and across his face, resting his hand on the pulse at Wilde’s neck. It’s fluttering rapidly, the skin is too hot, and Wilde’s half desperate laugh is… wrong.

“What?”

Wilde’s eyes are half closed and he’s arching towards Zolf’s hand. “Nothing,” he gasps. “Too hot.”

“Side effect of the poison,” Zolf says, although he feels too hot himself. He strips Wilde’s shirt away and turns to the basin, casting create water and dipping the sponge in it.

“Been too long,” Wilde is saying, and Zolf is sure that it’s delirium. “Forgot. Forgot how it … feels to…” Zolf presses the sponge over the newly healed wound, even with the water it’s hot under Zolf’s hands and Wilde lets out a sound that Zolf wants to put in the classification of awful but is sliding towards a category that he really wish his brain hadn’t created.

“You need to sleep.”

Wilde lets out a deep, racking laugh that is half sob. “Shackles,” he says.

“Have you heard a single thing I’ve said? You need magical healing. The shackles stop that. I can’t put them back.”

“Can’t sleep without them,” Wilde slurs.

Zolf wants to hit him but doesn’t. “Then I guess you don’t sleep,” Zolf says.

Wilde blinks owlishly at him for a second, then gives a mini shrug. “Okay.”

“Stubborn prat,” Zolf says and Wilde grins, then grimaces, then turns to his side and vomits copiously.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, then something else that sounds like… singing? It’s a language Zolf doesn’t recognise and Wilde waves a hand and the room is clean. Wilde looks at his hand, wistful. “Gods I’ve missed that.”

Zolf swallows down his own nausea and holds out a hand. “Can you get up? We’ll get you into the hammock.”

Wilde sits up and uses Zolf’s shoulder to steady himself. “My cabin,” he says. “Won’t fit in a Zolf sized hammock.”

“All right. No need to rub it in.”

He scoops up Wilde’s shirt and they make their way slowly out and down towards the passenger cabins. Wilde doesn’t have the best of them, Zolf notices, he’s in one of the smaller singles. Still bloody expensive for anyone not a complete toff, but more modest than he would have expected from the man. It has a cot rather than a hammock though, and it’s human sized, and there’s room for a single chair which will work for Zolf if he’s going to stay through this.

Wilde sits on the cot and leans forward, clumsily trying to untie his shoes. Bending forward obviously doesn’t do great things for his stomach, though and Zolf sees him stop, swallow hard, then start again.

“Oh for the love of…” Zolf says and kneels down to get the shoes off himself.

“Not how I ever imagined seeing you on your knees,” Wilde murmurs, and Zolf feels a stab of heat (fury?) lance through him. It’s not possible for Wilde _not_ to flirt, apparently.

“Do _not_ start,” Zolf growls, tossing the shoes to the corner of the room, then pushing Wilde back on the cot. The skin of his chest is still hot and lightly sheened with sweat and he sees Wilde lick  his lips as he lies down. His eyes are heavily lidded and Zolf can tell he’s struggling to stay awake.

“I can try a circle of protection,” Zolf says.

“Tried that,” Wilde says. “Didn’t work. Shackles are the only thing that does. Keep me awake until the poison’s gone, then you can put them back on.”

“Sure you don’t want to check and see if they’re still after you?”

“I think the fact that we were just attacked in the middle of the Suez _might_ indicate they’re still trying to get at me,” Wilde says, and his eyes close. “Distract me,” he says then.

“Want me to do a dance?” Zolf says.

Wilde snorts. “The nightmares are already bad enough.”

“Thank you very much,” Zolf stops himself from chuckling. He’s not going to laugh at Wilde’s jokes. It’s too a short step from there to something like affection, something like friendship. From there. To _something_.

Wilde is drifting again, too tired to fight against sleep without help and Zolf hesitates. “You could tell me more about what they’ve been up to,” he says, finally.

“Told you most of it,” Wilde says and Zolf pushes down a surge of disappointment. He shouldn’t have asked.

“Poison should work through your system in about an hour,” Zolf says. “I’m right here. I can wake you if the dreams come. Maybe they sent that lot,” he indicates with a wave of a hand the attackers, “because you’re too far away for whatever spell they’re casting to work any more.”

Wilde is on the edge of exhaustion, but he grabs Zolf’s arm with surprising force for a second eyes wide, mouth open to argue. Zolf keeps his gaze steady, raises one eyebrow.

“I thought you said you trusted me.”

Wilde’s eyes narrow, then he drops his arm.  

“Fine,” he says. He rubs at his face with both hands and takes in a large, shaking breath. “Fine,” he says again, then shifts on the cot. Zolf helps him get under the covers and he turns his back to him. Zolf watches him, occasionally putting out a hand to check the progress of the poison. It only takes a minute or so for Wilde’s breath to even out in sleep and Zolf sucks at his cheek. Dreams are funny things. Sometimes you don’t get them straight away. Sometimes they’re lurking directly behind the door to unconsciousness, ready to pounce.

Obviously Wilde’s are the latter.

He starts to thrash less than a minute after he turns away and Zolf reaches out to wake him. He’s barely touched Wilde when the man sits bolt upright with a cry, gasping for breath.

“All right?” Zolf asks.

Wilde turns to him, blinking, then slumps. “Not… really,” he says.

“There is a bright side.”

“Trying to cheer me up, Mr Smith?”

“Faster your heart pumps the sooner the poison will be purged,” Zolf says, smirking.

Wilde grimaces. “There are so many better ways to raise one’s heart rate,” he says. “Of course I can’t expect you to think of _those.”_ He swings his feet over the side of the cot and sits up, leaning against the wall of the cabin. “How long?”

“Another thirty minutes, give or take,” Zolf says.

“Mmm. I prefer to take longer than that, but I can work with it.”

“Wilde. Stop.”

“I figure if I can rile you up enough the time will go faster.”

“For _you.”_

“You’re not the one who's poisoned.”

“I’m not the one who was stupid enough to come up on deck in the middle of a fight with no armour and no magic. I’m not the one who was stupid enough to drop his weapon and then get shot with it. I’m not the one...” Zolf trails off as he notices Wilde’s expression has gone almost dreamy.

“Yes. Time’s going _much_ faster now."

“I should have drowned you in Paris!”

“You’d miss me,” Wilde says then, and he leans forward to rest his chin on his hand, still smiling. Zolf catches a whiff of sweat, mixed with the remnants of Wilde’s cologne, and can feel the heat from his skin. He clenches his jaw and doesn’t move back.

“No,” Zolf says. “We are _not_ doing this.”

“Doing what?”

Zolf waves a hand at Wilde. “This. We’re not doing it! You’re poisoned and I do _not_ like you and this is _not happening.”_

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr Smith,” Wilde says.

“Why is _everything you do_ so… so….”

“So?”

Zolf’s hands twitch by his sides. Wilde’s eyes trail lazily down to them then back up to Zolf’s face, fixing on his lips.

“You don’t want this!” Zolf says finally. “You’re just doing this to annoy me. And guess what? You’ve succeeded! Hooray for Wilde, master at getting under Zolf’s skin! I yield, you win, now _stop!”_

Wilde lifts a hand and Zolf’s shoots out, grasping his wrist and stopping whatever he is planning. His breath is coming too fast, and he notices the colour in Wilde’s eyes has been swallowed up by black.

“Is there a prize for winning?” Wilde murmurs.

Zolf kisses him. It’s either that or drowning, and really at this point, what’s the difference?

It’s not gentle. Wilde’s mouth curves under his and the hand that isn’t grasped firmly in Zolf’s reaches up to tangle in Zolf’s hair and pull him closer. Wilde shifts on the cot, moving forward until his knees are either side of the chair that Zolf is half out of, lips biting against Zolf’s and a satisfied hum rumbling in his chest. Wilde is pliant and slender and sinuous and this is _not a good idea_ and _Zolf really needs to stop_ but there’s something to the contact, something basic and primal and _necessary_ that makes pulling away unthinkable, _impossible_.

At some point he drops Wilde’s other wrist and steadies his hand against Wilde’s waist and Wilde opens his mouth and curls his tongue and Zolf lets out a guttural noise that makes Wilde shake with what Zolf realises, belatedly, is laughter.

At that Zolf puts a hand firmly on Wilde’s chest and pushes him back. Wilde’s lips are red and slightly swollen and he delicately swipes a thumb across them, eyes never leaving Zolf’s.

“How long now, do you think?”

“Fuck you, Wilde.”


	6. Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh nobody knows how to communicate things doo dah. Doo dah.  
> Also, the gorgeous and talented Yamisnuffles did art for this chapter for me. Check it out: https://yamisnuffles.tumblr.com/post/186266326836/commission-for-icescrabblerjerky-and-here-is-a

Zolf shoves the chair back and stands with his back to the door, as far away from Wilde as he can get without leaving the room. “Are we done?”

Wilde spreads his hands. “Well  _ hardly,”  _ he says.

“This…” Zolf makes a gesture, encompassing as best he can what’s just happened. “Is  _ insane _ .”

“Why?”

“You can’t really expect me to believe that you… that you want…”

“You?”

“Yes!”

“You really do need to work on your self esteem, Mr Smith,” Wilde says. “Honestly you’re very handsome,” he points a lazy finger towards Zolf’s face, “and your eyes go all sparkly when you’re angry. Quite captivating.”

Zolf buries both his hands in his hair and pulls. “Why are you  _ like  _ this? What does this  _ get _ you? We’re supposed to be on a mission, we’re supposed to be, I don’t know, saving the world? Isn’t that what’s meant to be happening here?”

Wilde chews on his lip (still red, still delicately curved). He looks tired again, or maybe Zolf is coming back to something approaching reality after the past few minutes and more able to see exactly how Wilde is feeling, even with his mouth still tingling and his heart hammering against his ribs. “Maybe I’m simply falling back into old habits.”

“Seducing people out of boredom? Or are you going to write this up in an article to make me into a laughing stock like you did with Bertie?”

Wilde  _ winces  _ and Zolf remembers that Bertie is dead now. Dead because of Wilde, essentially.  _ Dead like Hamid could be, like Sasha could be. Dead and gone and Zolf wouldn’t even know.  _ “Hit a nerve there did I?” he says, to silence the voices in his heart.

Wilde waves a hand. “Not the first agent I’ve lost.”. 

“Not the first agent you’ve fucked either.”

Wilde does not seem fazed at Zolf’s crudity, merely smiles slightly. “Bertie was useful to me in the same way he was useful to you.”

“Definitely  _ not _ in the same way he was to you,” Zolf mutters.

“He was a very special kind of idiot,” Wilde continues, precisely. “One of a kind I do not take you for.”

“But you  _ do _ think I’m an idiot.” Wilde shrugs and Zolf crosses his arms over his chest. “So what, that does it for you or something?”

Wilde looks at him for a moment, then laughs. It’s a genuine laugh, one Zolf hasn’t heard from Wilde before. “What about you, Mr Smith?” he says. “You certainly seemed enthusiastic enough there, for a while at least.”

“I’m not… celibate or nothing,” Zolf says, shifting from foot to foot. “I just don’t trust you not to… I don’t trust you full stop, I guess.”

Wilde lets out a breath. “I suppose that’s justified,” he says and Zolf blinks, then tilts his head. 

Opens his mouth.

Shuts it.

“All right what’s this then?”

Wilde pinches the bridge of his nose. “What’s what?”

“This new… thing you’re doing. Sharing. Stuff.”

Wilde’s eyes have gone glassy and he’s staring at a point on the wall to Zolf’s left. “Someone recently told me I needed to rely on other people more than I do,” Wilde says, then glances back up at Zolf and gives a lopsided smile. “I know, ridiculous advice, especially for me. But…” he shrugs again. “I nearly died, in Damascus. Maybe I’m reevaluating my life choices?”

Zolf heaves a sigh and smooths his beard. The urgency of the kiss is dissipating. He’s old enough that he can at least control his fucking libido, especially when it seems to be focusing on someone so utterly stupid.

It’s been a while, he tells himself. Understandable to get carried away in the moment. He just wants some sort of reaction from Wilde, he says to himself, and the man makes it so difficult to get anything any other way.

He’d tried to play by Wilde’s rules, so of course, he’d gotten played.

“How many minutes, now, do you think, Mr Smith?” Wilde says, and Zolf realises that he has completely lost track of time.

He swallows. “Let me check, then,” he says, moving forwards and hunkering down. He’s a cleric, he tells himself, as he reaches out hands to touch Wilde’s recently injured shoulder. He’s a cleric, he tells himself as he smooths his fingers over skin and sinks his awareness into Wilde’s flesh.

Wilde is utterly still under his hands. His heart rate is back to normal and the unnatural heat is gone. All Zolf can sense is bone deep fatigue.

“You’re fine,” Zolf says, and his voice sounds to his ears uncharacteristically gentle. “You want me to put the shackles back on? Sleep’s your best medicine now.” He’s been looking at Wilde’s chest as he talks, trying to make out if the bolt has left any traces of cloth from Wilde’s shirt in the wound, but he looks up to see Wilde just… watching him. 

“What?” Zolf says, but not harshly.

Wilde’s lips part and there is a moment where Zolf can imagine him saying something he isn’t sure he wants to hear. “Shackles would be delightful,” Wilde says. “Thank you, Mr Smith.”

Zolf fastens the shackles around Wilde’s ankle, probably more gently than he needs to. “Sleep, then,” he says. “Maybe wake up less randy, while you’re at it.”

The grin Wilde gives him as he leaves the room is obscene.

#

They avoid each other for the next ten days.

Zolf absolutely isn’t counting. He has work to do, especially when they come out of the canal and have to actually start dealing with the open sea. He sees Wilde, occasionally, standing on deck and taking in the air, or looking a little green when the seas are rough. Zolf finds he is enjoying being on the sea far more than he has since he left the navy. The roll of the deck under his feet, the bite of the sea wind, salt in his beard, makes him feel as though he has a purpose again.

It would be great, if it wasn’t for the dreams.

The first night he wakes up hard, he deals with it.

Zolf is too old to be ashamed of how he gets himself off. Nothing in his head can hurt anyone else, after all. So that first night he does the logical thing and takes himself in hand and deliberately remembers the noises Wilde made when he touched his feverish skin, and remembers the exact curl of Wilde’s tongue against his as he runs his hand over his dick. It’s about efficiency, Zolf knows from long experience. Sometimes, you want to linger. In this case, Zolf wants expediency, and if the perfect memory of a half naked, dishevelled and kiss bruised Oscar Wilde will let him come fast and sleep sound, he’s not going to complain.

He comes fast. He sleeps remarkably soundly.

The dreams don’t stop, though.

It doesn’t help that Wilde has started coming up on deck whenever he can, talking to the other crew. It doesn’t help that his normally immaculate suits are gradually being replaced by a simple loose pants and a shirt that gapes open at the neck and expose expanses of slowly tanning skin.

Of course, he never stays on deck enough to get burnt. But freckles have started to spread over his stupidly perfect nose and his cheeks are rosy with the wind exposure and Zolf is not thinking about how it had felt to have Wilde’s hand buried in his hair as he crowded up against him, hot breath on his lips and skin under his hands, he is  _ not. _

“You look more grumpy than usual, Mr Smith,” Wilde says, finding him on deck when he is off duty in the early evening. It’s threatening rain and the added moisture in the air is bracing and fresh. Zolf sucks in a long breath. 

“Been a long week,” he says looking up at the clouds, watching for the first telltale ragged edges that will mean the start of the downpour.

“They all do seem to be, these days.”

“Are you bothering me for anything in particular?” Zolf asks.

“We needed to discuss a plan,” Wilde says. “For when we reach Japan. Do you speak Japanese?”

“No.”

“A good thing I do, then, I suppose. We should probably think about hiring guards for the journey to Okonishima.” Wilde pauses and looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I need my magic,” he says finally.

“Would be handy,” Zolf says. “Since you’ve demonstrated you’re rubbish with a crossbow.”

Wilde rolls his eyes but lets that one slide. “I’ve done some calculations,” he says. “We’re at the furthest point from land we’ll be for the journey.” He lifts his hand and Zolf sees the cuffs, significantly not on Wilde’s ankle. “So I did an experiment. Seems I’m out of range.”

Zolf cocks an eyebrow. Wilde is still dressed the same way he has been for the past ten days. His hair is still shorn close to his skull. Perhaps he’s making sure the rest of the crew don’t notice anything different about him, but the Wilde he knew from Paris, the Wilde he _ thought  _ he knew, wouldn’t have passed up an opportunity to pretty himself up as soon as he was able. “Congratulations,” Zolf says, carefully. “I wouldn’t toss those into the sea though.”

“No,” Wilde snorts, then tucks the shackles into his pocket. “I also wanted to… apologise,” he says. 

Zolf blinks. “You what?”

“For the… misunderstanding. In the canal.”

Zolf swallows. “Misunderstanding,” he says, flatly.

Wilde studies his fingernails. “I have a rather… particular skill set,” he says. “I tend to… default to it. Under stress.”

“You snog people on instinct, then, do you?” 

Wilde spreads his hands, smiling. “To be fair, most don’t object, at least not for long.”

Zolf blows air out of his cheeks. “Wow,” he says. 

“If we’re going to work together effectively we need to not have these kinds of misunderstandings.”

“So what happened was just… delirium and your desperate need to be an asshole at all times?”

“I enjoy seducing people, Mr Smith. It’s not a chore. I do not, however, enjoy it if the other party is unwilling. Hence the apology.”

“I wasn’t…” Zolf starts. Then stops. Wilde is looking at him and  _ gods  _ Zolf hates the glint of interest and surprise in his eyes.

“You weren’t?”

Zolf shuts his eyes just as the first fat drops of rain start to splatter on the deck. “Fuck,” he says, distinctly, while Wilde gently chuckles.


	7. Invisible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops no I miscounted. At least one more after this.

Wilde is still watching him when he opens his eyes. The rain is starting to fall more heavily, big drops splattering on the deck punctuating what has become one of the most awkward silences of Zolf’s life. “Well then, Mr Smith,” Wilde says, eventually. “Is there anything you want me to do with that little bit of information?”

“Forget… it?” Zolf’s voice is still higher pitched than it should be.

Wilde taps his lips with one finger and tilts his head to one side. “If you like,” he says after a moment.

There is another pause. “O...kay?”

“Mmm hmmm.”

“We’re getting wet out here.”

“We are,” Wilde’s contemplative look doesn’t change but his tone turns business like. “I can make some enquiries when we make landfall in Tokyo,” he says. “We’re unlikely to find a mercenary group with exactly the same dynamics as you’re used to but swordsmen are at least, apparently quite common there and we won’t be in Rome so our magic will work just fine.” He glances up at the sky, then back at Zolf.

“So that’s that then? All settled?” Zolf says.

“You sound suspicious.”

“Of you and your motives? Now why would that be?”

Wilde leans forward, not far enough to be on Zolf’s level, but certainly close enough. “Would you prefer I _not_ forget about how much you apparently enjoyed what could generously be called our moment of…” he searches for the word for a moment. “Indiscretion?”

“Did… _you_ want to forget it?”

“Would you like to know a secret, Mr Smith?”

“Are we fucking playing the question game now?”

Wilde hunkers down on one knee so he’s looking Zolf directly in the eyes. “I couldn’t _possibly,”_ he says, smoothing his hands across Zolf’s shoulders, “want to forget something so very, very,” Wilde’s fingers lightly brush down to Zolf’s shirt collar, as though he is a butler fixing Zolf to go out in front of a crowd, “ _very_ satisfying.”

He won’t push it. Zolf knows this with a sudden certainty. He won’t put himself into Zolf’s space, won’t make the first move. Oh he’ll flirt and he’ll drop innuendo and he’ll leave openings and hints. It works. It works on people like Bertie, who took the compliments and the puns as things that were meant to stroke his ego, not Wilde’s, but Zolf knows now with absolute certainty that Wilde would have done nothing with Bertie that wasn’t on Bertie’s initiative. They probably could have had a nice, civilised debrief over brandy if Bertie didn’t have the libido of a dog in heat and the judgement of a drunk two year old.

Maybe the article would have been kinder if they had.

Wilde, Zolf realises, is a master at bringing other people out, exposing them and then exploiting what he’s been given, and there isn’t a chance in a flaming poo hell that Oscar Wilde will ever let that happen to _him_. Wilde cannot be the vulnerable one. Because if he ever is, whatever game he thinks he is playing, he will lose.

Zolf leans forward and watches as Wilde’s lips curve in an expectant smile. Instead, Zolf puts his mouth close to Wilde’s ear.

“Good to know,” he says, letting his voice hit its deepest rumble, before pulling back, nodding, and walking to his cabin.

He doesn’t look back.

#

Zolf can feel the shift in Wilde’s attitude in much the same way the deck shifts under his feet. The morning after their chat Wilde doesn’t come outside at all. The following morning Zolf sees him leaving the mess early, before any of the other crew are awake. He glances up as Zolf approaches, and Zolf sees his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly before giving him a brief nod. Zolf suppresses a satisfied smile and gets himself some breakfast.

Three days out from Tokyo they are becalmed. Not unheard of, on this route, but inconvenient. The crew isn’t big enough for them to man the oars round the clock so they slow to a crawl, the sea stretched out like glass around them. There’s no reason to be suspicious of it, though, at least, not until Zolf has the dream.

He’s back on the boat, in the channel.

He floats for a while, not sure whether he should be pleased or frustrated that Poseidon still wants to talk to him, after everything he's done. “All right,” he mutters, finally. “What d’you want then?”

Poseidon doesn’t approach this time, but Zolf can feel him, lurking at the edges of his consciousness. It’s the sea that’s the message. And for a change Poseidon isn’t being subtle.

As soon as he speaks, the water around him turns dead calm and glassy. For about three feet. Beyond that it roils and rolls like the worst storm imaginable.

“Message received,” Zolf says, and the dream fades as he wakes up.

He pulls on a shirt and goes to Wilde’s cabin.

Wilde opens to his knock, obviously straight from sleep. “Cast detect magic,” Zolf says, before the smug smirk can finish forming on his lips.

He frowns. Then his lips move and he waves a hand (Zolf is sure he can hear a faint tune in that same, unknown language). “Well,” he says. “This weather is not natural I take it.”

“Nope. How are your dreams?”

“Unremarkable,” Wilde says.

“So they’re probably just straight up going to try to kill you.”

“Refreshing,” Wilde says. “Any insight as to how?”

“Nope. They’d be stupid to send a ship, we’d see them coming. But I wouldn’t rule it out. Magic seems to be their go to, though, yes?”

“So far.”

“A circle of protection then,” Zolf says. “I’ll get my kit.” He makes a detour to the Captain to let her know that there is likely to be a magical attack.

“Your mate’s a pain in the arse,” Ladipo says, after he’s laid out the likely scenarios. Ladipo has transported dangerous passengers before, though, and Zolf assures her that Wilde will pay damages and compensate the families of the lost crew.

Zolf laughs. “Yes,” he says. “Yes he is. But he’s got a job to do and well, I guess the world is going to be better of if he manages to do it?”

Ladipo waves her hand. “Gods and morals,” she says. “Better you than me.”

When Zolf gets back Wilde has dragged his cot into the centre of the room and made space for Zolf to make the circle around it. “You’re not going to argue with me on this?” Zolf says.

“There are a wide variety of things worse than being stuck in a circle of protection in a cabin on the ocean, Mr Smith, and one of them is being dead. So no. I’m not going to object.”

“Fine.”

He casts the spell and Wilde sits on his cot, pulling out a book.

“Really?”

“Would you prefer we passed the time in other ways?”

“Don’t start.”

Zolf sits on the chair in the corner, just outside the circle, and crosses his arms over his chest. Silence descends, broken only by the sound of rustling paper as Wilde turns the pages of his book. Zolf isn’t exactly bored, but he also doesn’t exactly want to sit there staring at Wilde reading the whole time. Wilde is sitting cross legged, long limbs folded in a way that really shouldn’t be elegant, book open on his lap. Humans are so fucking _tall_ and gangly, it’s amazing they can keep on their feet at all, really. His crossbow is sitting, loaded, next to him.

“Enjoying the view?”

“I didn’t bring a book, did I?”

Wilde waves a hand at the small stand in the corner of the room. “I have spares,” he says, and Zolf gets up to go and look. “Although they might not be your genre. I suppose you like sweeping adventure tales of the sea rather than poetry. Or romance.” Zolf has his back turned so Wilde does not see him wince.

“You don’t carry around copies of your own books, do you?” Zolf runs his eyes over the titles. There’s the newest Dickens and Zolf reaches up to tug it free from between a Gaskell and an Austen.

Wilde laughs. “I haven’t been on a press tour for years,” he says. “So no.”

Zolf moves to return to his chair and feels a chill across his skin. Wilde, who has stopped reading and is looking up at him from the cot, doesn’t seem to notice anything. A wind picks up around them and Zolf’s fingers on the book are going numb.

“We’ve got company,” Zolf says. “Invisible company.”

Wilde drops his book and stands, raising his hands and muttering, letting the spell go as Zolf feels the chill in the air increase.

There is a shimmer in the air and Zolf can see, suddenly, the vague outline of a figure, arms raised, about to slam them down on Wilde’s unprotected head.

Zolf shouts and rushes between them, taking the blow on his right. It’s crushing - the thing, for all its insubstantiality, hits like a boulder. He can hear Wilde behind him, casting something else, but his focus has to be on the thing he’s grappling with. It reaches into whatever passes for its clothes and pulls out a dagger. Zolf mutters a few words and throws up a stunning barrier, pushing the creature back but not before he feels two sharp, deep stabs in his gut.

Behind him Wilde is _singing._

Zolf doesn’t have time to think about that, as he surges forward and draws his mace, swinging it into the body of the thing with all his strength. It screeches, and then there is a deafening sound that somehow moves _around_ Zolf and slams into the creature with as much force as Zolf’s mace, quickly followed by a crossbow bolt.

The creature falls into a barely visible heap on the floor of the cabin.

Zolf sucks at his teeth, gently toeing it with one foot.

“What’s this then?”

Wilde comes up next to him, looking down at the thing over his shoulder.

“Invisible stalker,” he says. “I’ve seen them a few times,” he kneels next to the corpse and rifles through its clothing, then curses softly under his breath. “No way to know who sent it. Although they’ll know its dead. Luckily they’re rare. Very unlikely that they’ll be able to just send another straight away.”

“How did it get on board?”

“It’s an air elemental,” Wilde says, still crouched, arms resting on his knees as he contemplates the thing they’ve just killed. “It flew. But it still would have had a hard time catching us if it wasn’t for the calm.”

“Hence the weather spell,” Zolf says, or tries to say, but the words don’t come out quite right and his head starts to swim.

Oh. That’s right. He got stabbed. He’d forgotten. Wilde is still talking, but the words are coming from a long way away and Zolf… just needs… to sit down. He takes a step back, then stumbles. Wilde looks up, confused and wary, and Zolf has a moment to see genuine shock on that perfect face before he falls backwards.

The last thing he hears is a heartfelt, “Fuck,” from Wilde.


	8. Growth

Someone is singing. Zolf doesn’t recognise the language - it’s lilting and almost sounds like a song in and of itself. The melody twines and twirls around him as though the notes themselves are dancing with each other and the resonant, gentle baritone weaving the tune is achingly familiar.

He opens his eyes to soft green light and can just make out Wilde through the magical haze, hands outstretched over Zolf’s stomach, unmistakably singing a song of healing.

The melody finishes and the light fades. Wilde folds his hands together and Zolf sees that he’s kneeling by the side of the cot - the cot in which Zolf is now lying, shirtless, two newly healed stab wounds in is gut.

“Well aren’t you full of surprises,” Zolf says, voice hoarse.

“Not my favourite school of magic,” Wilde says, and Zolf thinks he sees a faint blush of colour on Wilde’s cheeks. “But considering I’ve been working much more on my own these days, I thought I should expand my repertoire.”

“Wise,” Zolf says, sitting up. The muscle around the wounds is still tender, but Wilde’s done a decent job of it. It takes him a moment to realise what else has changed, but the room is rocking and moving as though over waves. “Wind’s back up then?”

Wilde nods. “I told the captain we’d dealt with the Stalker. I think her plan is to get to Tokyo as soon as possible.” He smiles. “She’s keen for me to take myself and my problems off her ship.”

“You’d be used to that attitude.”   


His lips twist. “Quite,” he says, and for once he doesn’t seem amused. His eyes flick down over Zolf’s chest. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve had worse,” Zolf says, which is objectively true. 

“You can rest here,” Wilde says, getting to his feet. “We should be in Tokyo in forty eight hours.”

“I’ve got work,” Zolf says, standing up. He feels a little light headed, but otherwise fine. “You did pretty good, for a bard.”

Wilde puts a hand on his shoulder. “You nearly died,” he says, softly. 

“Must be Tuesday,” Zolf says, looking around for his shirt.

“It would have been my fault,” Wilde continues. 

“To be frank, Wilde, the last six times I’ve nearly died have all been your fault, if indirectly.”

“Mmm. I think I can be excused from the almost drowning in the channel,” Wilde says, but his heart isn’t in it. 

“Do you have a point?”

Wilde sucks in air through his nose. “I’m not sure I do,” he says softly.

Zolf hasn't ever seen Wilde like this. 

_He has been this way before, though, and perhaps that first time, naked and shaved on a cot in the temple of Artemis with a tiny ball of determination barking orders at him paved the way for the possibility of vulnerability, the concept of giving in._

“You know I’ve worked you out, Wilde,” he says eventually, taking pity on his confusion. “I know why you do this…” he indicates the two of them. “I know what the game is and I know you can’t stop playing.”

Wilde just looks at him. Zolf sighs and puts one hand on his chest, gently enough, and pushes him against the door, determined to get through to him, somehow. Wilde doesn’t resist. “People aren’t things, Wilde. They’re not toys or game pieces to be moved around a board. And if you keep thinking of them like that, what do you think will happen to you? Do you think there’s some… ending where you come out on top?”

“The ending is the world being safe,” Wilde says. “The ending is…”

“What?”

Wilde shakes his head and shrugs.

Zolf sighs angrily, then fists his hand in Wilde’s shirt and pulls Wilde away from the door so he can leave. Wilde stumbles and clutches at Zolf’s hand as he falls with a thump onto the cot, sitting hard and blinking. He doesn’t let go of Zolf’s arm and Zolf tilts his head. “Wilde?”

Wilde tugs at Zolf, as though to pull him closer, but Zolf plants his feet. “Can you convince me there’s nothing to win?”

“I’m not playing the game, Wilde!” Zolf says. “You want something but you can’t ask for it because you think if you ask for anything you’ve failed.”

“And you won’t give it to me because you’re determined to prove that the game isn’t important.” 

“It isn’t!”

“To you!”

“What do you  _ want _ ?” Wilde doesn’t answer. “It’s not a difficult question!”

“Isn’t it? What do  _ you  _ want, Zolf Smith? It’s not so easy to pin down, is it? Can’t bundle it up into something pithy and entertaining, a one liner to wow society or to convince a stubborn bastard of a dwarf that what you want isn’t what’s at  _ stake  _ here? Mmm? The  _ world _ is ending.”

“It’s easy enough! I want my friends to be safe,. I want the world to… keep going. And I want you to know what it is you’re doing to people is  _ destroying  _ you. Never mind what it does to the rest of us.”

Wilde’s lips go thin and his eyes narrow. The grip on Zolf’s arm loosens slightly and Zolf starts to pull away, but Wilde’s fingers grip again, tighter and he yanks Zolf into the circle of his knees with surprising strength. Zolf doesn’t resist as Wilde knots his other hand in Zolf’s hair and pulls him down for a bruising kiss, deep and desperate. Zolf can imagine that it feels like drowning, and wonders if, for Wilde, it hurts.

When they break apart their breaths are ragged and uneven and Wilde’s knees have tightened around Zolf, trapping him in place.

_ “This _ is what you want then?” Zolf says, voice low. Wilde avoids his eyes until Zolf cups his cheek, not gently, and turns him so he cannot.

“Yes,” Wilde says then, and Zolf kisses him again, kisses Oscar Wilde thoroughly and deeply as Wilde finally,  _ finally,  _  tips his piece on the board. 

It isn’t a game, it never was, but Zolf can still understand that he has won.

#

_ The Halfling comes out of the small tavern, adjusting the cuffs on his immaculate three piece suit. The colours he used to favour so much are more muted now, greens and purples blending together almost enough to be mistaken for blacks and greys. _

_ He has a lead. A human and a dwarf, seen leaving to catch a ferry to Okonishima. The lead is nearly two years cold, but Hamid is  _ not _ going to give up. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ah... that's a thing. That happened. Mmm hmmm? Thanks for reading and commenting. There was a bit of accidental character growth there that I hadn't intended but it's actually really really hard to get Oscar Wilde to Admit Feelings, almost as hard as it is to get Zolf Smith to admit feelings and none of this is technically healthy but maybe they'll get something out of it while the rest of the gang are off in a different time plane. Literallly.
> 
> Also I am obsessed by the fact that Wilde is a bard. He's Irish born and obviously wants to COVER that he's a bard (hence the fact that we never hear him singing) so I like to think he does all of his bard magic with Gaelic. Letting Zolf hear him sing is obviously NECESSARY but also YOU KNOW character enriching and whatever. I am never going to be over Oscar Wilde. Basically.


End file.
